


Unspoken

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Closeted Character, Gift Fic, M/M, One Night Stands, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Looking back later on - when it turned out hedidafter all have a chance with Imelda, as he watched his fiancee and best friend trading barbs that were just a little too sharp to be entirely friendly teasing - Héctor would wish he’d pulled back, and talked about it. He truly should have pulled back.Theyshould have talked.But they hadn’t, and never would.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This is my half of a fic exchange. I was asked pre-canon Héctor/Ernesto and who am I to say no to that.

One core difference between him and Ernesto, Héctor knew, was that his friend enjoyed the performance more than the music itself.

Not that he didn’t like playing for a public: evenings like that, playing in Santa Cecilia’s cantina, were always fun. There was music, company and laughter, plus food and drinks they were welcome to once the performance was over. And, of course, there was Imelda. He was going to ask her out today. One of those days. Sooner or later. Maybe later.

Héctor sighed, resting his head on his hand, leaning on the table. She was moving from one table to the other with her hair tied back, quick and ever practical, balancing glasses and dishes with the same dignified grace one would wear a crown. Far too busy to pay attention to his love-struck puppy antics, probably, and far out of his league anyway.

It didn’t always feel like that, though. Sometimes she would sing along as he and Ernesto played in the cantina, and that was the best feeling in the world - she seemed almost reachable, as long as they had music to bind them. She’d had no formal training, much like himself and Ernesto, but she had the best singing voice Héctor had ever heard… though he wouldn’t say as much aloud in front of Ernesto, because he may just take it personally.

… Speaking of which, where was Ernesto? He’d had a drink with him after the performance and then just disappeared, muttering something vague Héctor hadn’t quite grasped. Shouldn’t he be back already?

Héctor stood, swaying a little on his feet, and looked around. The cantina was full of laughing men, both familiar faces and people from out of town, but he couldn’t see Ernesto anywhere. That was odd: he would usually be the last one to leave at night. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well? He had drunk more than usual, really. If so, there was one likely place he might have gone to sick it up. Careful not to bump into too many people, Héctor made his way through the cantina and to the door leading to a nearby alley.

It was narrow and always dark, full of old furniture and junk old Álvaro always said he’d throw away and never did, and Héctor guessed that if Ernesto was not inside, that was the most likely place to find him. So he opened the door and took a step outside, and at first he could see nobody at all.

_Not here,_ he thought, and he almost stepped back inside, closing the door behind himselfs. Less than a minute later, he’d wish he had done just that. But, just as he was about to get back in, something reached his ears: a muffled groan, coming from behind a discarded old table. Wait, was that Ernesto? Was he _that_ sick?

Without thinking, Héctor took a few steps forward and opened his mouth to call out - but just then someone spoke in a low, husky voice, and it was not Ernesto.

“Ah, you’re good at this, muchacho.”

He could see, just barely, the man whose voice that was. It was not a face he knew, so it had to be someone from out of town. He looked well in his thirties and was sitting on some old chair, back against the brick wall, head thrown back and a hand down to his groin, tangled up in a dishevelled mass of black hair. Because someone else was there, kneeling down in front of him, head moving slowly up and down with soft, wet noises. The second man had his back to him, but Héctor really didn’t need to see his face: he would have recognized Ernesto’s performing clothes anywhere.

Oh, Héctor thought. _Oh._

Realization was like being hit by a sack of sand, and he almost staggered backwards. His mind screamed for him to turn and go before being spotted, that if he left now he could still pretend to know nothing, to have seen nothing. But there was something else, too - a sudden sense of heat on his face and in his insides, like he’d just guzzled down a bottle of tequila in one go. Only that it didn’t leave him dizzy at all: he was all too aware of what was going on, of every movement and noise, and his feet stayed glued to the floor, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Enough,” the voice rasped again. “Not fair if I get all the fun. Let me take care of you.”

Before Héctor had time to process it the man was standing and so was Ernesto, but not for long. Within moments he was pressed down on the old table right by them, and the man was unbuckling his belt and then his own, and he had what looked like a small bottle of oil and…

Héctor swallowed, his mouth dry as sandpaper. He shivered, but not from the cold, because at that point he felt so warm he thought he might as well catch fire. The heat in his stomach moved down and he was distantly aware that it was wrong, that it shouldn’t be happening, not like that, not _for_ that. But his mind failed to register those thoughts, and the warning cry that he could be seen if he didn’t move away. He could only stare, silent and trembling and heartbeat rabbit-quick, when he man pressed himself down on Ernesto’s back with a grunt and snapped his hips forward.

It was too dark to see Ernesto’s expression clearly, but he could tell that he’d closed his eyes, he could see him biting down on his sleeve and hear his muffled groan. The man chuckled in response, whispered something in Ernesto’s ear that Héctor couldn’t hear, and shoved again, and again, and Ernesto was muffling his groans against his arm and… and...

There was the tiniest of moans, and Héctor was horrified to realize it had come from his own mouth. He slapped both hands on his mouth, hoping he had not been heard, and indeed the man didn’t so much pause… but Ernesto had heard it, and suddenly his eyes were wide open and they had found him.

Héctor had seen Ernesto scared plenty of times when they were kids, but he’d never seen that look of utter terror on his face… or anyone else’s, for the matter. It seemed so wrong that made him snap out of whatever daze he’d been in, and he was suddenly horribly aware of how wrong _all_ that was… and of the heat in his groin, impossible to ignore.

_No, no, no, no!_

He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to see what he had seen, but it was much too late for that and besides he couldn’t manage to force out a single word. So he did the only thing he could think of doing, the one thing he should have done from the start: he turned and bolted back inside through the door.

There were still plenty of people inside the cantina, drinking and talking and singing drunkenly, but Héctor didn’t really see any of them. He went past all of them and to the main door, not even saying goodbye to Imelda as he passed her by; as things were, he didn’t think he could hold her gaze. He didn’t want to pause, he didn’t want to think, he didn’t want anybody to see him like that.

Héctor burst into the town square, nearly crashing against an old lady, and began running towards home, through empty streets. He felt sick and he needed to be on his own, he needed to forget all about it, all that he had seen and all that he had _felt._ The next morning he’d pretend… he’d just… he…

“Héctor! Wait! Please!”

Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly behind him, and caused him to skid to a halt. Part of him wanted to keep running, but there was no way he could simply ignore it, not when he sounded so scared.

_Of course he’s scared. One word and it’s all over. One word and his life will crumble._

The thought was like a punch in the gut, because of course he hadn’t even thought about telling anybody, he would _never_ \- but the fact stayed that he held Ernesto’s reputation in his hands now, and the way he’d just ran off… of course he must have thought he’d rat him out to his family, to the whole town. He would never be able to stay if that became known; not Ernesto, who wanted people to like him so much. Héctor had heard of a local man who had thrown himself in a ravine to escape the shame, once, before he was even born.

_Either that,_  his uncle had laughed when telling the tale, _or he just got the job done before his family could. They pretend he never existed. No picture on the ofrenda or anything._

The memory made his blood run cold. He’d felt funny when watching, too - in a way he knew he shouldn’t have. Did that make him a… a deviant, too? Surely not - he there was Imelda, he really liked her even though he knew he had no chance to win her over, so there was that.

_But Ernesto likes girls, too. How can that be?_

“Héctor…!”

With a deep breath, Héctor forced himself to turn, still breathing heavily. Ernesto had paused a few strides away from him; his hair was still dishevelled, his jacket rumpled, but the look on his face was the worst of all. It made Héctor think of an animal caught in a trap. “Listen, I…” he began, but words seemed to catch in his throat. He looked close to tears, and somehow that was the most terrifying thing of all. And he was stammering, too, something so utterly unlike him that Héctor could barely wrap his mind around it. “About… about that, I didn’t--”

“I won’t tell,” Héctor blurted out. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Some of the terror seemed to fade from Ernesto’s face, and his shoulders dropped slightly as he breathed out. “Thanks,” he said, and he reached to rub the back of his neck, avoiding his gaze. He looked around, as though to make sure no one was nearby to listen, before he spoke again. For the first time, he sounded somewhat awkward.

“I’d… hate you to think…” he began, taking a step forward and lifting an arm, only to freeze when Héctor hastily stepped back. It hadn’t been out of disgust - it had been out of fear that Ernesto may realize just how what’d seen had affected him - but Ernesto couldn’t know that, could never know that, and he assumed the worst. Héctor could see that in the way he his hand had frozen in mid-air, in the stiffness of his frame, in the way his features twisted for a moment before he let his hand fall. “... Fair enough,” he said flatly, and turned away.

For a few moments Héctor could only stare at his retreating back, not quite knowing what to do or say. But then he saw him reaching up to furiously rub his eyes with one hand, and it was too much. He ran after him and grasped his sleeve.

“No, wait! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-- It’s okay, honest,” he blurted out. “It’s okay.”

Ernesto turned to look at him, startled, before he pulled his arm free and stepped back. He looked relieved for a moment, but then he scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that was both defensive and desperately defiant. “I’ll make no apologies,” he snapped, and in a way it was a relief. It sounded a _lot_ more like the Ernesto he knew, and Héctor felt safe enough to laugh. It felt like lifting a weight off his chest, and the perplexed look on Ernesto’s face made it hard to stop laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“I-- heh! It’s just… all right, sorry. Just warn a guy next time, sì? Or get a room? That was _awkward,_ amigo!” he added, and grinned. “I could have lived a long happy life without ever walking into that!”

Ernesto blinked at him for a moment before he rolled his eyes and snorted. “Oh, sure. Get a room, he says. Easy. I’ll just check into the inn next time I see someone from out of town I like and of course everybody in this spit of a town will mind their own busin--”

“You can use my room if that means I won’t have to chase after your two idiots again.”

“Gah!”

They both turned - Héctor let out a small shriek that was far from dignified - when Imelda’s voice suddenly rang out behind them. She was staring at them with her arms crossed, a bottle hanging from one hand, and tapping a foot on the ground. She looked all the world like she had back when she had caught Óscar and Felipe eating mud pies. Héctor was the first one to recover, and smiled.

“Imelda! Er… how long have you been here?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and just turned to glance at Ernesto. “Thanks a lot, idiota,” she muttered, stepping forward. “That was a customer who ran off without paying and will likely never show his face at the cantina again.”

The remark caused Ernesto to pale and glare at Héctor. “You said you wouldn’t tell--” he began, only to trail off with a yelp when Imelda marched up to him and stomped on his foot.

“He said nothing, cretino. I guessed what happened when he ran off like he’d just seen you murder someone, and you went after him. Men! Do you _always_ have to be so dramatic?”

Ernesto gave her a baffled look, hopping awkwardly on one foot. “But how would you--”

“My room above the cantina has a window right on that alley, genius. You could really get a room, you know. Or start using another alley. And get better taste in men _and_ women while you’re at it.”

“... Ah,” Ernesto muttered, clearly at a loss, while Héctor blinked at her.

“You knew and never told me?”

Imelda shrugged. “Why would I? No one’s business of his own. Best for everybody if it stays that way, isn’t it?” she added, and Héctor had to admit she had a point. He sort of wished she’d stopped him at the cantina, all things considered: she would have smacked all that dumb drama out of their heads right away.

_She’s way, way out of my league._

“So you won’t tell?” Ernesto was asking, as though he barely dared believe it, and she shrugged.

“Won’t tell if you don’t tell,” she said, and raised the bottle of tequila she’d been holding in her hand. “Let’s drink to that.”

Ernesto grinned. “You brought this for us? I am moved.”

“I actually forgot I had it in my hand when I came after you two. And I figured I could use it to smack you in the head if needed, but apparently we get to drink it instead. Let’s sit down and do that before I decide to charge you for it. You _can_ sit, right?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Ernesto said drily, but he did take the bottle when she handed it to him.

They drank sitting on a bench and laughing a bit while trying to imagine what people must have thought, seeing the three of them running after one another across the town like that. Héctor couldn’t remember the last time he and Imelda had been sitting that close, and the thought elated him so much he could almost forget what had happened in that alley, what he had seen, his own arousal, and the confusion and shame that had flooded him. Almost.

But he didn’t.

* * *

“Héctor?”

“Hmm?” Héctor hummed, putting his guitar back in its case before closing it. It had been a good day of practice, and he was pretty satisfied with how they’d done. It was a little annoying how Ernesto’s mind seemed to be elsewhere towards the end - he really needed some public to keep him focused, and it was only the two of them in that room - but still, not bad at all.

“I was thinking...”

“Were you? Sounds like we’ll be having snow this summer,” Héctor muttered, and prepared to duck under the half-hearted swipe that was sure to follow quips like that… only that, this time, there was none. Ernesto just stared at him, his mouth pulled in a tight line, and it made something clench in the pit of Héctor’s stomach.

“About… about last week,” Ernesto spoke again, and that was exactly what Héctor had feared he’d hear. He realized only in that moment that part of him had expected Ernesto to bring it up.

“We said we shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, but his mouth felt dry and, when Ernesto took a step towards him there was that heat in his lower belly again. Suddenly the room they were in felt too small but also too large, too warm and too cold at the same time. Héctor made an effort to meet Ernesto’s gaze, hoping against hope that the heat on his face did not mean he was turning red. “We agreed that it would be best--”

“Not with anybody else, no,” Ernesto agreed, and paused, only a couple of steps from him. His expression was oddly guarded, but there was something in his eyes all the same, a sort of hunger that Héctor had never seen before. Maybe he’d failed to notice it… or maybe Ernesto had never let it show until now. “But between us, I was thinking that… perhaps we could.”

“Talk about it,” Héctor muttered, and Ernesto nodded, stepping closer still.

“Talk about it,” he agreed, only that then he moved first and Héctor made no effort whatsoever to stop him, because he didn’t want to. In the end _talking_ was not what they did - because you cannot precisely talk with your mouth otherwise occupied and your thoughts scattered and disjointed and just plain incomprehensible.

“Ernesto,” was all he managed to force out at one point, and he reached to put his hands on his shoulders, with the confused idea of pushing him away - but then Ernesto’s mouth was brushing over his jaw, down his neck, and his hands clenched on his shirt instead, pulling him closer. The heat in his groin was there again, and Ernesto’s hands were fumbling with his belt.

He pulled away from his neck to sink on his knees, and Héctor’s face was aflame. He seemed unable to get enough air in his lungs and he felt like he was burning, like-  
_fire and brimstone, they would tell them in church, fire and brimstone and eternal damnation_ _  
_ \- but this time he wasn’t frightened. There had to be a word for it because there was something terrifying in that heat between them, in the noise that left Héctor’s throat when Ernesto’s mouth was on him at long last, in the way his hands clenched in Ernesto’s hair - but whatever that was, _frightened_ was not it.

Then Ernesto pulled him down with him and they must have shedded their clothes at some point, leaving only skin on skin, and through it all not one word was spoken but each other’s name. 

No, they definitely did not _talk._ They didn’t talk about it afterwards, either. Never mentioned it even once.

Looking back later on - when it turned out he _did_ after all have a chance with Imelda, as he watched his fiancee and best friend trading barbs that were just a little _too_ sharp to be entirely friendly teasing - Héctor would wish he’d pulled back, and talked about it. He truly should have pulled back. _They_ should have talked.

But they hadn’t, and never would.


End file.
